Post by Shae on Nov 29, 2021 1:32:27 GMT
Birth Name: Aethan
Name: Shae
Exact Age: Unknown
Estimated Age: 14-15
Nationality: Altaran
Place of Birth: Remen, Altara
Place of Residence: Transient
Affiliation: Lord Zamon, Nai'al Cor, Atha’an Shadar
Rank/Title: Dreadlord’s Shadow, Infiltrator, Assassin
Weapon Skills:
Martial: 7 (9) | Handheld: 5 (7) | Staves: 0 | Thrown: 9 | Ranged: 0 | Mounted: 0
Weight: 120 lbs
Build/Complexion: Lean/Pale
Eye/Hair Color: Green/Auburn
Distinguishing Features:
Unremarkable, would be the ideal word to describe Shae. His reflexive response to being in a crowd is to meld into it and become a natural part of its ebb and flow. Attracting attention is anathema, but if someone were to scrutinize him, they would see a young man somewhere in the middle of his adolescent years. He is of medium height with a wiry frame, better suited to elusion than brute force. Tousled brown hair with just a hint of red is matched with vibrant green eyes. His attire is fluid, chosen to be whatever is most common to the nation and area he happens to be in, as well as for the role he has currently adopted. At night, when he is able to execute his tasks with the fewest restrictions, he is outfitted in dark clothes tailored to perfectly suit his needs. The one near constant would be his equipment: numerous throwing knives hidden beneath his clothes, an array of metal darts, a set of lockpicks, and a long knife sheathed on his belt next to a padded leather pouch containing a pruning knife and a collection of small unlabeled vials, each filled with a variety of powders and liquids. In a "hidden" pocket of the pouch, little more than a sewn-in square of leather, is an Altaran marriage knife, set with a solitary piece of white glass.
Shae is a bit of an enigma. To those who see him work, victims and the rare witness, he is cold and relentless. But to those who know nothing of his true nature, the citizens and individuals who unknowingly aid him by fleshing out his aliases, he is the quietest youth they've ever met, but a peaceable one. A diligent worker, every task he undertakes is completed with the utmost care, down to each and every meticulous detail.
His true personality, that of whatever person he might have been, is lost to obscurity, buried beneath a lifetime of clandestine activities. He has a multitude of identities, worn and discarded at need, each one crafted for a variety of situations. However, there is always a slight hint of something off, with these personas, for those perceptive enough to spot it. Even the greatest actor, after all, can’t fake something they do not understand.
Almost everything Shae knows about people comes from observation, from watching the day to day lives of normal people in his idle hours or when he is set to do so. With no framework or context with which to understand these observations, however, all he can do is imitate. Well enough to pass undetected, for the most part, but always several degrees removed from true understanding.
This level of mimicry indicates Shae is possessed of a keen intellect and he has a strong sense of curiosity to match it. He rarely asks for assistance, instead preferring to seek out answers on his own. His training and upbringing built upon this foundation, honing both his reflexes and acumen. Shae has proven himself to be an apt pupil. He learns quickly, particularly in situations where logic and quick thinking are highly valuable. This trait has served him remarkably well, as his astuteness has allowed him to survive fights he otherwise should have lost.
The craft of handling virulent poisons adds to his lethality, and therefore survivability, in combat, as inflicting a single scratch is often enough to ensure his opponents' defeat. The study of plants, both medicinal and deleterious, appeals to his meticulous side, as does the second reason his missions are so successful: the gathering of intelligence. Shae has an uncanny level of skill when it comes to infiltrating a location undetected, as well as a knack for blending into his surroundings, as if he belongs. The more information he possesses of a particular area, the easier it is.
When alone or on a mission, his face is a blank mask, one that even the most skilled players of Daes Dae’mar might covet, as it never reveals a hint of emotion. One of the first, permanent, lessons Shae ever learned was that emotions are a bane to his existence, a weakness that only ever makes things worse. His own have become muted: he still feels them but it’s as if the connection to him is tenuous. Such numbness was an involuntary coping mechanism that allowed him to endure moments of extreme emotional and physical pain, but has since become a near constant state.
Despite this, or perhaps because of it, Shae has on numerous occasions displayed a remarkable level of what many would consider to be empathy. Pain, powerlessness, fear, frustration: he understands these all too well and, provided it doesn't interfere with his Master's wishes, seeks to alleviate them in others. Sometimes it is with a medicinal concoction, while on other occasions, it's the use of his skills to "persuade" a persecutor or abuser to back off. Shae will readily admit, if only to himself, that he isn't sure why he engages in such pastimes. He doesn't particularly enjoy them. But he's capable of it and, from time to time, chooses to do so.
When in the presence of his Master, he is the ideal servant: silent, obedient, and unerringly loyal. Zamon, partly out of paranoid thoroughness and partly out of an academic interest to see if he could, chose to condition Shae into compliance, instead of relying purely on their saidin-forged bond. The surprising, but nonetheless gratifying, result was someone that would protect his Master out of sheer reflex.
One would think that such ill treatment could hardly foster such faithfulness; fear and obedience, perchance, but genuine fidelity? The answer, of course, lies in the fact that Shae is completely unaware of the true extent of his indoctrination. Because, in addition to physical conditioning, Zamon also manipulated his bonded's mind, testing the true limits of the saidin-bond's woven obedience, and crafting Shae's body and soul into his most fervent servant.
Shae, for his part, believes his devotion to his Master to be genuine, born out of gratitude to the man who not only saved his life, but gave him a purpose, a reason for his otherwise pointless life. He's never once had reason to question his Master's motives...or at least, not one that he's ever recalled. Zamon is exceedingly confident that his conditioning, perfected over decades of experimentation, albeit never successfully accomplished within a single subject before, is so absolute that he actually allows Shae a very long leash. He even indulges his pet's curiosity a great deal, all of which serves to further cement Shae's misguided notion that his Master is a man worth serving.
She came across a wounded man one day, out in the forest. She rescued him, brought him into her home, and nursed him back to health. When he awoke, he saw at once how her naivety could be of use to him. She believed the lies he gently whispered, the tragic tale of his merchant caravan being set upon by brigands. And, over the days and weeks of his recovery, she fell for his false proclamations of adoration, for she was the woman who had rescued him.
When it came time for the man to return to his homeland of Altara, she chose to leave with him, believing herself to be in love. For a time, that belief was enough to sustain her. It allowed her to rationalize her new husband’s use of her dowry and to justify the bursts of anger she endured when each of his business prospects failed. Even when she needed to work and scrounge to make ends meet, while he drank her wages away, it was enough.
And when her love started to not be enough, the man was possessed of enough intelligence to be calculating, to know exactly what he needed to say and do, to keep the woman in his thrall. He apologized for letting her down, as her husband, with enough sincerity that she, still possessed of her youthful innocence, did not doubt him. He claimed that he still loved her and, to prove his devotion, he appealed to her nurturing nature by giving her a child.
When the young woman brought her son into the world, the following year, it almost proved to be her final act. The birth was a difficult one. For all her knowledge as a healer, she almost didn’t survive. But she did, if in a significantly weakened state. No matter the joy that being a mother provided, her health was never quite the same. The birth likewise affected the man, if not in the same manner.
Deprived of the steady income her herbal remedies had once brought in, the man’s already strained control over his temper deteriorated. His lot in life had never been to his liking, no matter his believed-to-be-substantial efforts to change it. Yet the man was not the sort to recognize the role his own shortcomings had played in his lack of prosperity. That dearth in self-awareness led to a simmering kettle of vexation, with no healthy outlet.
With the woman too frail to withstand his fits of rage, the next closest vessel to receive it was their son. For the first few years of the boy’s life, whenever the kettle boiled over, it was vitriol. But as the man’s frustration festered and his self-control further frayed each year, the abuse became physical. The woman tried to protect the boy, but her infirmity meant even her best amounted to little more than a token effort. The constant pressure on her feeble health took its toll and, inevitably, death claimed her.
Her passing marked the end of all warmth and affection in the boy's life.
With no one left to tie him down, or rather with no one left whom he could exploit, the man sold off whatever he could, packed up the rest, and hit the road, dragging the boy in his wake. For the next several months, the man stole, swindled, and occasionally killed for their daily bread. The boy was expected to assist with these endeavours, leading to his first lessons in theft, deception, and the use of small blades.
Failure was not tolerated in any manner and was a guaranteed beating for the boy if it occurred, regardless of whether the child was actually at fault. Thus, the boy was very motivated to hone his skills as quickly as he was able, to give his father as little reason as possible to use him as an outlet. They lived in whatever hovel was available, cheapest, or abandoned, and therefore free. Nor did they ever remain in one place for long, as the man's preferred method of earning coin was the sort that the locals tended to frown upon.
Eventually the man's activities drew the attention of the unsavory and disreputable: those that had pledged themselves to the Dark. Lured by their promises of wealth, power, and influence, the man accepted their offer of employment, even if he didn't fully understand what he was pledging his services to. The work he was assigned was not far off from his previous, largely petty crimes, yet paid much more coin.
The boy was largely left to his own devices, save the occasions where he was dragged into the man's tasks. But, unfortunately, the steady supply of coin allowed the man to regularly drink himself into a stupor. The man became meaner than ever, his rage fueled by his newfound access to plentiful alcohol. As the boy grew, he became fast enough to dodge his inebriated old man's blows. Some of the time, anyways.
Each time he fled, however, he always returned, slipping back inside once the man slumbered. It might be hours, maybe days, but the boy always came back. He did not return out of any sense of filial piety and certainly not out of sentimentality, but simply because he had nowhere else to go. Despite the frequent beatings, the man was a known danger, while a child alone on the streets, especially on those of poverty-stricken Altara, was a nearly guaranteed death sentence.
This was just what life was like for the boy, the only way he knew how to survive. There was a modicum of comfort in the routine, predictable nature of the man. Little did the boy know that this tragic cycle was not his intended role in the Pattern. Things were about to drastically change for him, in a series of events brought about by an ostensibly innocuous encounter.
When the boy first met the lord, it was rather incidental. As one of his father's benefactors, for it was clearly evidenced by his noble bearing that he was unlike any of the other dubious individuals usually found in the man's company, the lord had arrived to address them. The boy was captivated, as he had never before been so close to such a personage. For all his fixed attention, however, the boy didn't quite hear the lord's words, as the man cuffed him for staring, hard enough that his ears rang. The blow certainly wasn't unusual but the man's fear that had been behind it was.
Ironically or, perhaps, the effect of something else more, the blow had the opposite of its intended effect. Instead of belaying the lord's attention from the boy, it attracted it. And for one instant that stretched beyond its boundaries, it seemed as if the lord could see straight into him. The boy instinctively knew that the lord was, for some unfathomable reason, intrigued by him. The scrutiny ended as quickly as it had begun, with almost everyone in the room unaware it had even occurred. Everyone but the boy and, regrettably, the man.
Humiliated that the lord's gaze would be drawn to his worthless son, rather than to himself, the man ensured this failing would not go unpunished later that night. The resultant beating was vicious, yet only served to cement the lord further in the boy's memories. It planted a seed, small and withered though it was, that maybe, just maybe, there was some value to his miserable existence.
In the months following, that seed remained dormant, as the boy's life slid back into the same old routine as before. Humans are naturally creatures of habit, so it was not an arduous effort. Before long, the lord faded from the boy's memories. But the seed remained and soon it would be granted the conditions it needed to sprout.
The next significant occurrence of the boy's life started out normal, a day like any of the countless others that had preceded it. The man had been in a temper, issued threats punctuated by a sharp blow, and drove the boy out with the demand he not return until he had something to show for it. And so the boy had gone to the market, a rich hunting ground, if incredibly risky, for the guards there were always on alert for pickpockets. The appeasement of the man, however, was a powerful motivator. His own desperation, fueled by a tight knot of hunger in his belly, led the boy to believe the heightened risk was acceptable.
He kept believing that, as he prowled the crowds, searching for a suitable mark, right on up to the moment he was caught. The word resounded within the boy, quickly supplanted with rising panic. He had never been caught before. There had been close calls before, certainly, but the boy had always managed to steal away. Until the black clad arm that clamped down onto his thin wrist, drawing him away from his intended prize. The boy's emotions edged closer and closer to outright hysteria as his thoughts raced from one dreadful consequence to the next.
Yet nothing happened.
The edge of his alarm dulled, as the Asha'man did no more than pull the boy in his wake. It faded further still, as the boy was guided to a bustling building, then to a quieter room within, where he was bidden to sit. The Asha'man spoke quietly to others, but the words unheeded as the boy fixated on some manner of escape. Even as he scanned the room for some manner of egress, the boy felt his eye return to his captor again and again.
Beyond the black coat of his office, the boy knew nothing about him. Adults in general were something to be wary of for children of the boy's ilk. The Asha'man's grip had been firm, his instructions delivered in a tone that brooked no argument...but there had been something else there as well, a kindness the boy had not experienced for many years. It was this benevolence that gave the boy a reason to pause, to consider for the barest moment if he should remain in the frail ray of hope that the Asha'man had shone on the boy's seed of self-worth.
But in the end it was fear, consistently and thoroughly thrashed into the boy by the man, that won out. When the Asha'man was called from the room, the boy seized his chance to ease out the window, choosing to return to the familiar, if abusive, shadows rather than face an uncertain, if hopeful, future. It was a choice that would determine the design the boy's thread would weave and, many twists and turns of the Pattern later, it would become a decision the boy would come to rue.
As he limped home, his hobbled stride a testament to his rash, impulsive flight from his would-be rescuer, his thoughts turned toward the man. That he would punish the boy was assured, but as this particular offense was a novel one, so too would be its response. The boy’s steps faltered as he drew nearer to their lodgings. More than once he stopped outright with a backwards glance but resignation drew him inexorably onward. It would be best, the boy knew, to face the man sooner rather than later, to endure the rage and pain he knew awaited him. Prolonging the inevitable, allowing dread to build up and fester inside him, would only make it worse.
If he had known what he would soon face, the boy might have made a different choice. Or perhaps, chained as he was to a cycle of abuse, he would have made the same one.
The man was, as predicted, furious. That the boy had ultimately escaped the Asha'man didn't matter in the least. He became so consumed by anger that what little reason the man had possessed was lost to its ferocity. Such was his wrath that the man’s assault was more extensive and far more brutal than all those that had come before. The man’s fists rained down on the boy’s battered form for an interminable period, even after his victim no longer had the strength to protect himself. With each blow that fell, the boy felt something inside of him, some part of his psyche that was already stretched and damaged, as it shattered into pieces. Each and every person has a breaking point, a time where they can endure no more. The boy had at last reached his.
Unbeknownst to both, others were aware of the cruelty taking place that night. The seemingly fleeting interest of the lord had not been short-lived, for all the brevity of the moment itself. He had, in fact, set his people to watch the child. And it was their presence that saved the boy. By the time they intervened, he was in and out of consciousness, his broken ribs made every breath more difficult than the last. The boy remained aware just long enough to witness the arrival of the lord, to register shock at his reappearance, before he succumbed to oblivion.
The next few months passed in a blur as the boy recovered from his injuries. For much of that he slept, enveloped in a dreamless darkness. Each and every time he woke, however briefly, the lord was there. He tended to the boy himself, Healing what he could when he could, careful not to tax his newfound ward's tenuous grasp on life. From the boy's perspective, it was a display of care and consideration that was all but unknown to him. Whereas the lord viewed it as an investment, a calculated effort that would return to him tenfold.
Even as the boy's strength returned, however, the damage to his psyche remained. The disquieting, devastating knowledge that the man, his father, no matter that the man had never once behaved like one, had hated his existence so much that he had sought to snuff it out, was a harsh truth the boy had been unable to bear. For years after his rescue, he was little more than a hollowed out shell, utterly desensitized to most stimuli, barely capable of following commands. It was a state the lord exploited with ease.
The boy's training and conditioning began as soon as he was deemed able. While the Dreadlord reshaped the boy's broken mind, his chief servants tempered his body. The Named, as the boy learned his instructors were called, were ruthless in his lessons. The rudiments of combat, stealth, and thievery imprinted on him by the man were taught anew, while additional skills such as climbing, healing, herblore and poisoncraft were set before him to learn and, eventually, master. Hardened by a life of abuse, the boy adapted to his new environment quickly. All the pain and harsh treatment seemed inconsequential compared to the man's cruelty because the former, at least, had a purpose behind it. Even when cruelty was the point, the boy found he had the will, a reason, to endure: to prove his worth to his lord...and to grow strong enough so that no one could hurt him ever again.
Injuries were routine and frequently intentional. Anything that hampered the boy's development was Healed, making him the one recruit the Dreadlord deigned to treat; all else was to be endured. Scattered amidst all of the physicality of this day to day were the boy's private sessions with his Master. Sometimes they were a mere conversation, some were excruciatingly painful procedures, but most were, and still are, lost in a haze, a mystery to all but Zamon.
The "special" treatment and evident favor the boy received from their Lord won him few, if any, allies amongst the Nai'al Cor. It even earned him enemies, with some led to enviously believe that killing their lord's favorite would allow them to take his place. Such enmity served to further isolate the boy and reinforced his dependence on his Master. Anything that was asked of him he gave, completely and willingly. At first the lord asked only for dedication to the boy’s lessons, but gradually wanted more as time passed, as the boy's skills developed, and Zamon's treatments began to take hold.
But no matter how much he improved, the boy was still little more than a glorified test subject. The Dreadlord continued to push and test the boy, always observing and using the data he collected to refine his research. Zamon believed he understood his creation perfectly, yet even he was unable to anticipate the true extent of the boy’s capabilities. When they were revealed, it was as unexpected for Zamon as the boy himself.
He accompanied his Master to a meeting beyond the walls and defenses of the Dreadlord’s lair. What should have been a routine assessment soon erupted into chaos as men, loyal to Atal Mishraile as would later be determined, made a play for Zamon’s life. It was not the first attempt, nor would it be the last, but this time there was one notable difference: the boy.
He had been there only so his Master could observe his behavior in an uncontrolled environment. The moment Atal’s assassins struck, Zamon's guards moved to engage the enemy while he commanded saidin and wove defenses of his own. Nothing had been expected of the boy; he had been momentarily forgotten in the chaos. Yet, as one assassin slipped through their defensive net and turned his blade toward the Dreadlord’s back, he reacted in exactly the manner he believed was expected of him. As it turned out, the unique combination of Zamon’s experimentation, immersion within the Nai’al Cor, and most importantly the boy’s deep-seated need to prevent events like the one that had nearly destroyed him, had molded him into the perfect defense against other killers.
Numb to the fear that might have otherwise immobilized him, accustomed to physical pain, resistant to conventional poisons and trained for years by sparring with the Nai'al Cor, the boy shielded his Master with his own body and struck down the one who dared to raise a hand toward his lord. Once the short-lived attack was over, Zamon realized that the boy held a value far greater than developing his research. He had proven himself, in fact, to be the Dreadlord’s greatest success. As the boy’s reward for saving the life of his Master, Zamon bonded him...and Named him Shae.
Being elevated to Zamon’s chief servant changed the boy’s life considerably. Shae was given assignments and responsibilities that allowed him to roam the Westlands relatively freely: a demonstration of the faith his Master had in his pet or, more likely, the required obedience of Shae's newly woven leash. Where once was a youth who rarely left the twisting, dark corridors of their stronghold, now there was a fleeting shadow who quickly learned the corners and alleys of cities by rote.
Five years to the day he was rescued found Shae with significantly more independence and a series of successful missions to his Name. His skill in infiltration and espionage had grown, marking him as one of the Nai’al Cor’s best. This, and the absolute trust his Master had in his loyalty, is why he was tasked with the groundwork for their greatest mission yet: destabilizing both of the Towers with one well-timed assault.
By merit of his age and skill at deception, Shae successfully infiltrated the Black Tower as a servant in the kitchens. For months he, and the few remaining Shadow Legion within its walls, gathered information on the M’Hael and the Towers' planned reunion. As the Bonding Ceremony drew ever nearer, a plan was formulated, carefully crafted to maximize victory.
To no avail.
The day the M’Hael and his entourage departed for the Black Tower, the Nai’al Cor learned that Atal Mishraile, forever intent on destroying the plans of Zamon, his former protégé, for the latter's betrayal, had struck the White Tower in an attempt to disrupt the Ceremony. Seeing his carefully laid plan in peril, Zamon scrambled to salvage what he could. He sent Shae to kill Jadin al'Vyron before his arrival in Tar Valon. If he couldn't damage both Towers, then he would at least take one.
Accompanied by three of the Nai'al Cor, the boy slipped into the Black Tower's encampment on the shores of the River Luan. He was uneasy, though nothing of his uncertainty showed. Attempting the kill here was risky. There hadn't been nearly enough time to redesign an effective plan, now that the original was in shambles. Even worse, their best assassin, the man who had been calculated to have the best chance at success, was still leagues away. Which meant the killing blow now fell to Shae and those of the Cor that had been near enough.
As the assassins entered the main pavilion and attacked the M'Hael, a distant, dormant memory flared within the boy's mind. Shae held back...and watched as Jadin defeated the others with ease. When their eyes locked, the boy was startled to realize he knew the man he had come to kill. He was even more shocked to see a flicker of recognition mirrored in the gaze of his victim.
"We don't have to fight," the M’Hael said, as Shae slashed at him with his knife. Each attack was parried effortlessly, yet the older man made no attempt to return them. The boy knew he had to finish this quickly, before anyone else was alerted. But as he continued his assault, acutely aware of each passing second, he couldn't stop focusing on the peculiar behavior of his target. Why wasn't he fighting back? Why hadn't he called out? Why was he trying to help?
That faded, hazy memory flickered to the forefront of his mind. Suddenly the boy knew the answers to those questions, recalling at last the events that had led to the worst moment of his life. Shae froze. For the first, and only, time since being bonded, he wasn't sure if he wanted what his Master had commanded.
But the boy's orders were absolute.
Hearing the approach of someone from outside the tent, Shae made one last effort to accomplish his mission. He feinted to the left and, once his opponent moved to block that stroke, he unleashed the throwing dagger he had palmed in his right hand. It barely connected, grazing a line of blood across Jadin's shoulder, before it sliced through canvas and disappeared into the darkness beyond. A trifling wound, but it was enough. Within seconds, the M’Hael was on the ground, as poison coursed through his body.
Shae stood in silence, daring to wait a moment longer to ascertain his death was imminent. Then he left, as quietly as he had arrived, merging into the shadows like a ghost.
The boy had expected to die that night and had been fully prepared to give his life to carry out his Master's will. But instead his victim, unwilling to kill him to defend his own life, had died to spare him. Shae couldn't fathom a reason for it, especially since the M’Hael had had no such qualms about killing the other assassins. As he traveled to his rendezvous, Shae's mind worried at this confusing outcome. Even as he received praise for his success, there was a part of him that was deeply unsettled, a part that knew such a death should not have occurred.
98 - 99 FA: Birth
102 FA: Death of His Mother
104 FA: First Encounter with Zamon
105 FA: Crosses Paths with Jadin al'Vyron; Saved from Certain Death by Zamon; Becomes the Youngest “Recruit” in the History of the Nai'al Cor
108 FA: Saves Zamon from Assassins sent by Atal; Bonded and Receives his Name
111 FA: Infiltrates the Black Tower as a Servant
112 FA: Assassinates the M’Hael of the Black Tower
113 FA:
Books Read: “The Eye of the World" to "The Crown of Swords" plus “New Spring”
Name: Shae
Exact Age: Unknown
Estimated Age: 14-15
Nationality: Altaran
Place of Birth: Remen, Altara
Place of Residence: Transient
Affiliation: Lord Zamon, Nai'al Cor, Atha’an Shadar
Rank/Title: Dreadlord’s Shadow, Infiltrator, Assassin
Weapon Skills:
Martial: 7 (9) | Handheld: 5 (7) | Staves: 0 | Thrown: 9 | Ranged: 0 | Mounted: 0
APPEARANCE
Height: 5’4"Weight: 120 lbs
Build/Complexion: Lean/Pale
Eye/Hair Color: Green/Auburn
Distinguishing Features:
- often believed to be younger than he is
- several prominent scars, but not as many as one might expect
Unremarkable, would be the ideal word to describe Shae. His reflexive response to being in a crowd is to meld into it and become a natural part of its ebb and flow. Attracting attention is anathema, but if someone were to scrutinize him, they would see a young man somewhere in the middle of his adolescent years. He is of medium height with a wiry frame, better suited to elusion than brute force. Tousled brown hair with just a hint of red is matched with vibrant green eyes. His attire is fluid, chosen to be whatever is most common to the nation and area he happens to be in, as well as for the role he has currently adopted. At night, when he is able to execute his tasks with the fewest restrictions, he is outfitted in dark clothes tailored to perfectly suit his needs. The one near constant would be his equipment: numerous throwing knives hidden beneath his clothes, an array of metal darts, a set of lockpicks, and a long knife sheathed on his belt next to a padded leather pouch containing a pruning knife and a collection of small unlabeled vials, each filled with a variety of powders and liquids. In a "hidden" pocket of the pouch, little more than a sewn-in square of leather, is an Altaran marriage knife, set with a solitary piece of white glass.
PERSONALITY
Shae is a bit of an enigma. To those who see him work, victims and the rare witness, he is cold and relentless. But to those who know nothing of his true nature, the citizens and individuals who unknowingly aid him by fleshing out his aliases, he is the quietest youth they've ever met, but a peaceable one. A diligent worker, every task he undertakes is completed with the utmost care, down to each and every meticulous detail.
His true personality, that of whatever person he might have been, is lost to obscurity, buried beneath a lifetime of clandestine activities. He has a multitude of identities, worn and discarded at need, each one crafted for a variety of situations. However, there is always a slight hint of something off, with these personas, for those perceptive enough to spot it. Even the greatest actor, after all, can’t fake something they do not understand.
Almost everything Shae knows about people comes from observation, from watching the day to day lives of normal people in his idle hours or when he is set to do so. With no framework or context with which to understand these observations, however, all he can do is imitate. Well enough to pass undetected, for the most part, but always several degrees removed from true understanding.
This level of mimicry indicates Shae is possessed of a keen intellect and he has a strong sense of curiosity to match it. He rarely asks for assistance, instead preferring to seek out answers on his own. His training and upbringing built upon this foundation, honing both his reflexes and acumen. Shae has proven himself to be an apt pupil. He learns quickly, particularly in situations where logic and quick thinking are highly valuable. This trait has served him remarkably well, as his astuteness has allowed him to survive fights he otherwise should have lost.
The craft of handling virulent poisons adds to his lethality, and therefore survivability, in combat, as inflicting a single scratch is often enough to ensure his opponents' defeat. The study of plants, both medicinal and deleterious, appeals to his meticulous side, as does the second reason his missions are so successful: the gathering of intelligence. Shae has an uncanny level of skill when it comes to infiltrating a location undetected, as well as a knack for blending into his surroundings, as if he belongs. The more information he possesses of a particular area, the easier it is.
When alone or on a mission, his face is a blank mask, one that even the most skilled players of Daes Dae’mar might covet, as it never reveals a hint of emotion. One of the first, permanent, lessons Shae ever learned was that emotions are a bane to his existence, a weakness that only ever makes things worse. His own have become muted: he still feels them but it’s as if the connection to him is tenuous. Such numbness was an involuntary coping mechanism that allowed him to endure moments of extreme emotional and physical pain, but has since become a near constant state.
Despite this, or perhaps because of it, Shae has on numerous occasions displayed a remarkable level of what many would consider to be empathy. Pain, powerlessness, fear, frustration: he understands these all too well and, provided it doesn't interfere with his Master's wishes, seeks to alleviate them in others. Sometimes it is with a medicinal concoction, while on other occasions, it's the use of his skills to "persuade" a persecutor or abuser to back off. Shae will readily admit, if only to himself, that he isn't sure why he engages in such pastimes. He doesn't particularly enjoy them. But he's capable of it and, from time to time, chooses to do so.
When in the presence of his Master, he is the ideal servant: silent, obedient, and unerringly loyal. Zamon, partly out of paranoid thoroughness and partly out of an academic interest to see if he could, chose to condition Shae into compliance, instead of relying purely on their saidin-forged bond. The surprising, but nonetheless gratifying, result was someone that would protect his Master out of sheer reflex.
One would think that such ill treatment could hardly foster such faithfulness; fear and obedience, perchance, but genuine fidelity? The answer, of course, lies in the fact that Shae is completely unaware of the true extent of his indoctrination. Because, in addition to physical conditioning, Zamon also manipulated his bonded's mind, testing the true limits of the saidin-bond's woven obedience, and crafting Shae's body and soul into his most fervent servant.
Shae, for his part, believes his devotion to his Master to be genuine, born out of gratitude to the man who not only saved his life, but gave him a purpose, a reason for his otherwise pointless life. He's never once had reason to question his Master's motives...or at least, not one that he's ever recalled. Zamon is exceedingly confident that his conditioning, perfected over decades of experimentation, albeit never successfully accomplished within a single subject before, is so absolute that he actually allows Shae a very long leash. He even indulges his pet's curiosity a great deal, all of which serves to further cement Shae's misguided notion that his Master is a man worth serving.
HISTORY
Our story begins with a young woman from Andor. The daughter of an herbalist, she spent most of her days gleaning medicinal herbs in the forests and hills that surrounded her small village. She was a sweet and good-natured individual. For an ordinary person, especially one that followed in her father’s footsteps as a healer, those are excellent qualities. But when faced with iniquity, those same traits meant she never stood a chance.She came across a wounded man one day, out in the forest. She rescued him, brought him into her home, and nursed him back to health. When he awoke, he saw at once how her naivety could be of use to him. She believed the lies he gently whispered, the tragic tale of his merchant caravan being set upon by brigands. And, over the days and weeks of his recovery, she fell for his false proclamations of adoration, for she was the woman who had rescued him.
When it came time for the man to return to his homeland of Altara, she chose to leave with him, believing herself to be in love. For a time, that belief was enough to sustain her. It allowed her to rationalize her new husband’s use of her dowry and to justify the bursts of anger she endured when each of his business prospects failed. Even when she needed to work and scrounge to make ends meet, while he drank her wages away, it was enough.
And when her love started to not be enough, the man was possessed of enough intelligence to be calculating, to know exactly what he needed to say and do, to keep the woman in his thrall. He apologized for letting her down, as her husband, with enough sincerity that she, still possessed of her youthful innocence, did not doubt him. He claimed that he still loved her and, to prove his devotion, he appealed to her nurturing nature by giving her a child.
When the young woman brought her son into the world, the following year, it almost proved to be her final act. The birth was a difficult one. For all her knowledge as a healer, she almost didn’t survive. But she did, if in a significantly weakened state. No matter the joy that being a mother provided, her health was never quite the same. The birth likewise affected the man, if not in the same manner.
Deprived of the steady income her herbal remedies had once brought in, the man’s already strained control over his temper deteriorated. His lot in life had never been to his liking, no matter his believed-to-be-substantial efforts to change it. Yet the man was not the sort to recognize the role his own shortcomings had played in his lack of prosperity. That dearth in self-awareness led to a simmering kettle of vexation, with no healthy outlet.
With the woman too frail to withstand his fits of rage, the next closest vessel to receive it was their son. For the first few years of the boy’s life, whenever the kettle boiled over, it was vitriol. But as the man’s frustration festered and his self-control further frayed each year, the abuse became physical. The woman tried to protect the boy, but her infirmity meant even her best amounted to little more than a token effort. The constant pressure on her feeble health took its toll and, inevitably, death claimed her.
Her passing marked the end of all warmth and affection in the boy's life.
With no one left to tie him down, or rather with no one left whom he could exploit, the man sold off whatever he could, packed up the rest, and hit the road, dragging the boy in his wake. For the next several months, the man stole, swindled, and occasionally killed for their daily bread. The boy was expected to assist with these endeavours, leading to his first lessons in theft, deception, and the use of small blades.
Failure was not tolerated in any manner and was a guaranteed beating for the boy if it occurred, regardless of whether the child was actually at fault. Thus, the boy was very motivated to hone his skills as quickly as he was able, to give his father as little reason as possible to use him as an outlet. They lived in whatever hovel was available, cheapest, or abandoned, and therefore free. Nor did they ever remain in one place for long, as the man's preferred method of earning coin was the sort that the locals tended to frown upon.
Eventually the man's activities drew the attention of the unsavory and disreputable: those that had pledged themselves to the Dark. Lured by their promises of wealth, power, and influence, the man accepted their offer of employment, even if he didn't fully understand what he was pledging his services to. The work he was assigned was not far off from his previous, largely petty crimes, yet paid much more coin.
The boy was largely left to his own devices, save the occasions where he was dragged into the man's tasks. But, unfortunately, the steady supply of coin allowed the man to regularly drink himself into a stupor. The man became meaner than ever, his rage fueled by his newfound access to plentiful alcohol. As the boy grew, he became fast enough to dodge his inebriated old man's blows. Some of the time, anyways.
Each time he fled, however, he always returned, slipping back inside once the man slumbered. It might be hours, maybe days, but the boy always came back. He did not return out of any sense of filial piety and certainly not out of sentimentality, but simply because he had nowhere else to go. Despite the frequent beatings, the man was a known danger, while a child alone on the streets, especially on those of poverty-stricken Altara, was a nearly guaranteed death sentence.
This was just what life was like for the boy, the only way he knew how to survive. There was a modicum of comfort in the routine, predictable nature of the man. Little did the boy know that this tragic cycle was not his intended role in the Pattern. Things were about to drastically change for him, in a series of events brought about by an ostensibly innocuous encounter.
When the boy first met the lord, it was rather incidental. As one of his father's benefactors, for it was clearly evidenced by his noble bearing that he was unlike any of the other dubious individuals usually found in the man's company, the lord had arrived to address them. The boy was captivated, as he had never before been so close to such a personage. For all his fixed attention, however, the boy didn't quite hear the lord's words, as the man cuffed him for staring, hard enough that his ears rang. The blow certainly wasn't unusual but the man's fear that had been behind it was.
Ironically or, perhaps, the effect of something else more, the blow had the opposite of its intended effect. Instead of belaying the lord's attention from the boy, it attracted it. And for one instant that stretched beyond its boundaries, it seemed as if the lord could see straight into him. The boy instinctively knew that the lord was, for some unfathomable reason, intrigued by him. The scrutiny ended as quickly as it had begun, with almost everyone in the room unaware it had even occurred. Everyone but the boy and, regrettably, the man.
Humiliated that the lord's gaze would be drawn to his worthless son, rather than to himself, the man ensured this failing would not go unpunished later that night. The resultant beating was vicious, yet only served to cement the lord further in the boy's memories. It planted a seed, small and withered though it was, that maybe, just maybe, there was some value to his miserable existence.
In the months following, that seed remained dormant, as the boy's life slid back into the same old routine as before. Humans are naturally creatures of habit, so it was not an arduous effort. Before long, the lord faded from the boy's memories. But the seed remained and soon it would be granted the conditions it needed to sprout.
The next significant occurrence of the boy's life started out normal, a day like any of the countless others that had preceded it. The man had been in a temper, issued threats punctuated by a sharp blow, and drove the boy out with the demand he not return until he had something to show for it. And so the boy had gone to the market, a rich hunting ground, if incredibly risky, for the guards there were always on alert for pickpockets. The appeasement of the man, however, was a powerful motivator. His own desperation, fueled by a tight knot of hunger in his belly, led the boy to believe the heightened risk was acceptable.
He kept believing that, as he prowled the crowds, searching for a suitable mark, right on up to the moment he was caught. The word resounded within the boy, quickly supplanted with rising panic. He had never been caught before. There had been close calls before, certainly, but the boy had always managed to steal away. Until the black clad arm that clamped down onto his thin wrist, drawing him away from his intended prize. The boy's emotions edged closer and closer to outright hysteria as his thoughts raced from one dreadful consequence to the next.
Yet nothing happened.
The edge of his alarm dulled, as the Asha'man did no more than pull the boy in his wake. It faded further still, as the boy was guided to a bustling building, then to a quieter room within, where he was bidden to sit. The Asha'man spoke quietly to others, but the words unheeded as the boy fixated on some manner of escape. Even as he scanned the room for some manner of egress, the boy felt his eye return to his captor again and again.
Beyond the black coat of his office, the boy knew nothing about him. Adults in general were something to be wary of for children of the boy's ilk. The Asha'man's grip had been firm, his instructions delivered in a tone that brooked no argument...but there had been something else there as well, a kindness the boy had not experienced for many years. It was this benevolence that gave the boy a reason to pause, to consider for the barest moment if he should remain in the frail ray of hope that the Asha'man had shone on the boy's seed of self-worth.
But in the end it was fear, consistently and thoroughly thrashed into the boy by the man, that won out. When the Asha'man was called from the room, the boy seized his chance to ease out the window, choosing to return to the familiar, if abusive, shadows rather than face an uncertain, if hopeful, future. It was a choice that would determine the design the boy's thread would weave and, many twists and turns of the Pattern later, it would become a decision the boy would come to rue.
As he limped home, his hobbled stride a testament to his rash, impulsive flight from his would-be rescuer, his thoughts turned toward the man. That he would punish the boy was assured, but as this particular offense was a novel one, so too would be its response. The boy’s steps faltered as he drew nearer to their lodgings. More than once he stopped outright with a backwards glance but resignation drew him inexorably onward. It would be best, the boy knew, to face the man sooner rather than later, to endure the rage and pain he knew awaited him. Prolonging the inevitable, allowing dread to build up and fester inside him, would only make it worse.
If he had known what he would soon face, the boy might have made a different choice. Or perhaps, chained as he was to a cycle of abuse, he would have made the same one.
The man was, as predicted, furious. That the boy had ultimately escaped the Asha'man didn't matter in the least. He became so consumed by anger that what little reason the man had possessed was lost to its ferocity. Such was his wrath that the man’s assault was more extensive and far more brutal than all those that had come before. The man’s fists rained down on the boy’s battered form for an interminable period, even after his victim no longer had the strength to protect himself. With each blow that fell, the boy felt something inside of him, some part of his psyche that was already stretched and damaged, as it shattered into pieces. Each and every person has a breaking point, a time where they can endure no more. The boy had at last reached his.
Unbeknownst to both, others were aware of the cruelty taking place that night. The seemingly fleeting interest of the lord had not been short-lived, for all the brevity of the moment itself. He had, in fact, set his people to watch the child. And it was their presence that saved the boy. By the time they intervened, he was in and out of consciousness, his broken ribs made every breath more difficult than the last. The boy remained aware just long enough to witness the arrival of the lord, to register shock at his reappearance, before he succumbed to oblivion.
The next few months passed in a blur as the boy recovered from his injuries. For much of that he slept, enveloped in a dreamless darkness. Each and every time he woke, however briefly, the lord was there. He tended to the boy himself, Healing what he could when he could, careful not to tax his newfound ward's tenuous grasp on life. From the boy's perspective, it was a display of care and consideration that was all but unknown to him. Whereas the lord viewed it as an investment, a calculated effort that would return to him tenfold.
Even as the boy's strength returned, however, the damage to his psyche remained. The disquieting, devastating knowledge that the man, his father, no matter that the man had never once behaved like one, had hated his existence so much that he had sought to snuff it out, was a harsh truth the boy had been unable to bear. For years after his rescue, he was little more than a hollowed out shell, utterly desensitized to most stimuli, barely capable of following commands. It was a state the lord exploited with ease.
The boy's training and conditioning began as soon as he was deemed able. While the Dreadlord reshaped the boy's broken mind, his chief servants tempered his body. The Named, as the boy learned his instructors were called, were ruthless in his lessons. The rudiments of combat, stealth, and thievery imprinted on him by the man were taught anew, while additional skills such as climbing, healing, herblore and poisoncraft were set before him to learn and, eventually, master. Hardened by a life of abuse, the boy adapted to his new environment quickly. All the pain and harsh treatment seemed inconsequential compared to the man's cruelty because the former, at least, had a purpose behind it. Even when cruelty was the point, the boy found he had the will, a reason, to endure: to prove his worth to his lord...and to grow strong enough so that no one could hurt him ever again.
Injuries were routine and frequently intentional. Anything that hampered the boy's development was Healed, making him the one recruit the Dreadlord deigned to treat; all else was to be endured. Scattered amidst all of the physicality of this day to day were the boy's private sessions with his Master. Sometimes they were a mere conversation, some were excruciatingly painful procedures, but most were, and still are, lost in a haze, a mystery to all but Zamon.
The "special" treatment and evident favor the boy received from their Lord won him few, if any, allies amongst the Nai'al Cor. It even earned him enemies, with some led to enviously believe that killing their lord's favorite would allow them to take his place. Such enmity served to further isolate the boy and reinforced his dependence on his Master. Anything that was asked of him he gave, completely and willingly. At first the lord asked only for dedication to the boy’s lessons, but gradually wanted more as time passed, as the boy's skills developed, and Zamon's treatments began to take hold.
But no matter how much he improved, the boy was still little more than a glorified test subject. The Dreadlord continued to push and test the boy, always observing and using the data he collected to refine his research. Zamon believed he understood his creation perfectly, yet even he was unable to anticipate the true extent of the boy’s capabilities. When they were revealed, it was as unexpected for Zamon as the boy himself.
He accompanied his Master to a meeting beyond the walls and defenses of the Dreadlord’s lair. What should have been a routine assessment soon erupted into chaos as men, loyal to Atal Mishraile as would later be determined, made a play for Zamon’s life. It was not the first attempt, nor would it be the last, but this time there was one notable difference: the boy.
He had been there only so his Master could observe his behavior in an uncontrolled environment. The moment Atal’s assassins struck, Zamon's guards moved to engage the enemy while he commanded saidin and wove defenses of his own. Nothing had been expected of the boy; he had been momentarily forgotten in the chaos. Yet, as one assassin slipped through their defensive net and turned his blade toward the Dreadlord’s back, he reacted in exactly the manner he believed was expected of him. As it turned out, the unique combination of Zamon’s experimentation, immersion within the Nai’al Cor, and most importantly the boy’s deep-seated need to prevent events like the one that had nearly destroyed him, had molded him into the perfect defense against other killers.
Numb to the fear that might have otherwise immobilized him, accustomed to physical pain, resistant to conventional poisons and trained for years by sparring with the Nai'al Cor, the boy shielded his Master with his own body and struck down the one who dared to raise a hand toward his lord. Once the short-lived attack was over, Zamon realized that the boy held a value far greater than developing his research. He had proven himself, in fact, to be the Dreadlord’s greatest success. As the boy’s reward for saving the life of his Master, Zamon bonded him...and Named him Shae.
Being elevated to Zamon’s chief servant changed the boy’s life considerably. Shae was given assignments and responsibilities that allowed him to roam the Westlands relatively freely: a demonstration of the faith his Master had in his pet or, more likely, the required obedience of Shae's newly woven leash. Where once was a youth who rarely left the twisting, dark corridors of their stronghold, now there was a fleeting shadow who quickly learned the corners and alleys of cities by rote.
Five years to the day he was rescued found Shae with significantly more independence and a series of successful missions to his Name. His skill in infiltration and espionage had grown, marking him as one of the Nai’al Cor’s best. This, and the absolute trust his Master had in his loyalty, is why he was tasked with the groundwork for their greatest mission yet: destabilizing both of the Towers with one well-timed assault.
By merit of his age and skill at deception, Shae successfully infiltrated the Black Tower as a servant in the kitchens. For months he, and the few remaining Shadow Legion within its walls, gathered information on the M’Hael and the Towers' planned reunion. As the Bonding Ceremony drew ever nearer, a plan was formulated, carefully crafted to maximize victory.
To no avail.
The day the M’Hael and his entourage departed for the Black Tower, the Nai’al Cor learned that Atal Mishraile, forever intent on destroying the plans of Zamon, his former protégé, for the latter's betrayal, had struck the White Tower in an attempt to disrupt the Ceremony. Seeing his carefully laid plan in peril, Zamon scrambled to salvage what he could. He sent Shae to kill Jadin al'Vyron before his arrival in Tar Valon. If he couldn't damage both Towers, then he would at least take one.
Accompanied by three of the Nai'al Cor, the boy slipped into the Black Tower's encampment on the shores of the River Luan. He was uneasy, though nothing of his uncertainty showed. Attempting the kill here was risky. There hadn't been nearly enough time to redesign an effective plan, now that the original was in shambles. Even worse, their best assassin, the man who had been calculated to have the best chance at success, was still leagues away. Which meant the killing blow now fell to Shae and those of the Cor that had been near enough.
As the assassins entered the main pavilion and attacked the M'Hael, a distant, dormant memory flared within the boy's mind. Shae held back...and watched as Jadin defeated the others with ease. When their eyes locked, the boy was startled to realize he knew the man he had come to kill. He was even more shocked to see a flicker of recognition mirrored in the gaze of his victim.
"We don't have to fight," the M’Hael said, as Shae slashed at him with his knife. Each attack was parried effortlessly, yet the older man made no attempt to return them. The boy knew he had to finish this quickly, before anyone else was alerted. But as he continued his assault, acutely aware of each passing second, he couldn't stop focusing on the peculiar behavior of his target. Why wasn't he fighting back? Why hadn't he called out? Why was he trying to help?
That faded, hazy memory flickered to the forefront of his mind. Suddenly the boy knew the answers to those questions, recalling at last the events that had led to the worst moment of his life. Shae froze. For the first, and only, time since being bonded, he wasn't sure if he wanted what his Master had commanded.
But the boy's orders were absolute.
Hearing the approach of someone from outside the tent, Shae made one last effort to accomplish his mission. He feinted to the left and, once his opponent moved to block that stroke, he unleashed the throwing dagger he had palmed in his right hand. It barely connected, grazing a line of blood across Jadin's shoulder, before it sliced through canvas and disappeared into the darkness beyond. A trifling wound, but it was enough. Within seconds, the M’Hael was on the ground, as poison coursed through his body.
Shae stood in silence, daring to wait a moment longer to ascertain his death was imminent. Then he left, as quietly as he had arrived, merging into the shadows like a ghost.
The boy had expected to die that night and had been fully prepared to give his life to carry out his Master's will. But instead his victim, unwilling to kill him to defend his own life, had died to spare him. Shae couldn't fathom a reason for it, especially since the M’Hael had had no such qualms about killing the other assassins. As he traveled to his rendezvous, Shae's mind worried at this confusing outcome. Even as he received praise for his success, there was a part of him that was deeply unsettled, a part that knew such a death should not have occurred.
TIMELINE
98 - 99 FA: Birth
102 FA: Death of His Mother
104 FA: First Encounter with Zamon
105 FA: Crosses Paths with Jadin al'Vyron; Saved from Certain Death by Zamon; Becomes the Youngest “Recruit” in the History of the Nai'al Cor
108 FA: Saves Zamon from Assassins sent by Atal; Bonded and Receives his Name
111 FA: Infiltrates the Black Tower as a Servant
112 FA: Assassinates the M’Hael of the Black Tower
113 FA:
Books Read: “The Eye of the World" to "The Crown of Swords" plus “New Spring”
